"White Noise"

Jody first got the idea as he turned the knob of the old gas stove. The blue flames jutted up around the pot, and Jody held his hands close to the heat, warming them in the chill night air. The heating of the decrepit old building was broken, and the surfaces of the apartment were icy to the touch. As the water in the pot began to boil, Jody poured in the rice, then grabbed the bottle of vodka on the counter and slumped into his couch, staring at the kitchen. As he took a pull from the bottle, he noticed again the black cracks running up and down the walls, and the broken window that he had closed up with cardboard. Loud bangs came from the room upstairs, and someone outside had begun playing music that rang out with rhythmic beats.

When the rice was done, Jody took the pot and a spoon back to the couch and ate slowly, savoring the taste. Even at home, he had loved rice. The food and the music reminded him of the old trailer, and he remembered his older brother playing guitar on one end and his mother nursing the baby on the other, while he sat in the kitchen and ate a bowl of rice. There had been a gas stove there, too, but the heating wasn't broken, and even in the winter, the trailer was warm, except for the drafty closet in his room. He had never liked the closet. The closet was where the werewolves hid in the dreams.

Jody finished his rice and drank more vodka. He turned on his radio and there was a guitar. It played softly, while the man sang of love and hate and conflict. Jody liked that, but there was static in the background. There had never been static when his brother had played, singing in a loud, off-key voice. Jody finished the bottle, then shut off the radio. Almost drunk, he turned out the lights and wrapped himself in layers of blankets on the couch, trying to keep warm. His toes and legs and torso and arms were warm, but his head was not. Jody nestled into the cushions, and slept and dreamed. In his dream, his closet was warm, and he danced with werewolves while his mother made rice on the stove and his brother played guitar.

By the time sunshine burst through the cardboard window and hit his face, the music had stopped, and his nose and ears were cold. He unwrapped himself from the blankets, and grabbed his towel. The bathroom was on his floor of the building, which was luck. There was no hot water, which wasn't. He joined the line leading to the doorway, and stared at the back of the man in front of him. The man was old, like the building, and the straggles of white hair coming from the baldness agitated Jody. So did the way the man was bobbing his head, and so did his rasping voice, as he talked to the little boy whose small, smooth hand was clutched in a gnarled old one. The old man was talking about World War II. Jody ignored the conversation, and stared at the liver spots on the old man's neck, waiting for the line to get shorter.

When he woke up, Jody was in the burger joint where he worked. The dining area was shiny and bright, peaceful in the morning hours, with stark white fluorescent lights beaming down from the ceiling. Jody didn't work in the dining area. Jody worked in the backroom, washing dishes. In the backroom, there was no brightness. The surfaces were greasy and the action was hectic - only the light was the same.

The one person in the dining area at the moment was a short, stout man in his middle years, with slightly greying hair and a cigarette nestled between thick red lips. There was a styrofoam cup of coffee clutched in his hands, and he perched over a newspaper that sat on the table. Jody slid into the booth across from him, and smiled sickly. "Wie geht es dir, kraut?" he asked playfully.

"Up yours, amerikaner," the man replied in a heavy German accent. "You're late again."

"Those old buildings," Jody said, shrugging his shoulders. He stared at the glowing tip of the man's cigarette. He knew he was late, and he knew what was coming next. The man laughed.

"Don't I know it," the man chortled, removing the cigarette and extinguishing it in the ash tray. Jody's eyes stayed on the mouth. "You've got to get out of those places if you want to make it big, Jody," he said, with a grin on his face. "It did wonders for me. Now get your ass into the kitchen." Jody nodded, and slid out of the booth.

The day began, and the customers started to trickle in. Each one left a dish that was added to Jody's stack in the backroom. Jody stood in front of the sink, gloves on and elbow deep in the scalding water, scrubbing the plates, feeling the heat, and thinking. He thought about the man in the dining room, and his advice. He thought about the laugh, and the grin, and the cigarette, and he frowned.

"He's marginalizing me," he thought, slamming a dish into the rinsing area violently. "He thinks he's better. But when he comes back here at closing time, I'll grab him and shove his head under the water, and he'll drown in his own filth." He threw another dish. It missed the sink, and shattered on the floor; several of the cooks looked over at him.

"Hey, man," one of them yelled. "What do you think you're doing? Get it cleaned up before he comes back here!" Jody nodded, and went to get the broom. Jody knew how to clean up the messes he made. When he made rice at the trailer, he would sometimes break a bowl. Then his mother would yell at him too, what do you think you're doing Jody, cut off the stove, the rice is burning, get this mess cleaned up, and the baby would scream, and she'd slam the door and feed it while Jody got the broom. The rice would taste bad on those days.

At closing time, Jody scrubbed down the sinks and took off his gloves. The German man stood at the door of the restaurant with a new cigarette and a stack of checks. Jody was last in line. He stood with his head bowed as the man joked with the workers. When it was Jody's turn, the man didn't hold out a check, and Jody looked at the cigarette in surprise.

"If you're late one more time, Jody, I'm going to fire you," The man said, his cigarette bobbing up and down. He inhaled sharply, making the orange at the end of the tobacco flare up. When Jody didn't talk, he let out a steady stream of smoke. "I understand the position you're in," he said quietly, "But I can't make allowances. Allowances didn't get me out of your position." He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a check, holding it towards Jody. Jody kept on staring at the cigarette.

What do you think you're doing Jody, his mom yelled, the rice is burning, get this mess cleaned up.

"I broke one of your plates today, kraut," he whispered. He judged the thickness of the neck, and saw himself grasping it, and shoving it under the water. The man nodded, and broke into another grin.

"I know, amerikaner. The cooks told me. I took it out of your paycheck." Jody took the check and walked out the door, zipping up his coat as he went. The street was cold, and snow was falling onto the sidewalks. The rice left a bad taste in his mouth.

Jody walked down the streets alongside the store windows, nearly brushing the walls of the buildings as he stared at the merchandise. Several times he was almost hit by a running man or a woman with several bags of groceries. Each time he apologized, and continued his walk, as he thought of the futures of the goods in the windows, and the things he could do with each of them.

As he passed by a jewelry store, he paused and looked in at the gold and jewels. A necklace caught his attention, and he glared at it. It twinkled back at him, and he saw the scene in his mind - He would go into the store and ask how much it was. It would be on sale and he would pay with cash. When he left, he would go up to a woman, any woman, especially the woman sitting on the bench across the street, the one with the red dress with the low bust and the high hem, and place the necklace around her neck, mumbling sweet somethings about deserving beauty. The necklace would tumble onto the bare flesh of her chest, and rest there, teasingly.

The woman would gasp in surprise, then lick her red lips, and run her eyes along him, appraising him. She would ask his name, taken in by the confidence and excitement of a gift from a stranger, and they would walk a little ways down the street, talking, and connecting in magical ways. Finally, they would come to her apartment building, and she would smile a little bit at him, and give him a slip of paper with her phone number on it. As she walked up the steps, she would sway her hips teasingly, and half turn her head, looking back at him, expectantly.

And later, they would explore life over cups of coffee and pizzas, and bowling and movies and wine, and one day they would kiss, and one day they would make love, and he would go back to college and get his degree, and they would get an apartment together. Then at a fine Italian restaurant, with soft music in the background and fine cloths on the table, they would look lovingly at each other, with the knowledge of things shared and things yet to come, and he would be overwhelmed by the beauty of her eyes, and bow to one knee, and propose. And she would cry for joy, and they would embrace.

And then there'd be a white wedding, with their families, and he'd reconcile with his mother, and she would embrace him, and talk about the fine young man he'd become, and he'd invest in the stock market. And one day, he'd hit it big, and they'd buy a big house and have two children, both sons, and they would feed them rice, him and his blushing bride. And their life would be perfect, and full of love and light and warmth and she would grow fatter and spoiled, and he would come home from work tired and irritable and beat the children when they were loud; and his wife and he would get drunk and fight, and she would cheat on him with his work friends from spite, and he would know and say nothing, and visit the skin flicks at night, a dirty grunting middle aged man, and their stocks would fall and they'd have to sell the house and buy a trailer, and the closets would be drafty, and one day he'd drive to work and turn into the parking lot and blow his mind out with his father's gun (a wedding present from his mother).

Jody shook himself and looked back at the bench. The woman was still there, staring blankly into space. A car pulled up next to her, and she smiled. The door opened, and she got in. Jody looked back at the necklace, and snarled. He forced his numb hand into a fist and bashed at the window repeatedly. The glass was solid, and his knuckles flared with pain; he could hear the cashier yelling in the store. A small group of pedestrians stopped their travels and looked at him, gawking curiously. As the door of the jewelry store opened, Jody pushed one of the people aside, and scampered down the street, the snow drifting into his eyes as he cried and his knuckles bled.

When he reached his building, he sprinted up the cracked and dirty stairs, going two or three at a time, nearly knocking down a black woman with a baby in her arms. He paused and grabbed her to stop her from falling. She yelled and slapped him with the edge of her nails, leaving four thin trails of blood along his face. He stood and smirked at her, then began to run again, calling out behind him, "Feed it rice!"

Once at his room, he slammed the door shut, and laughed nervously. He slumped into his couch, staring at the black cracks on the wall, and giggling. His cheeks felt hot and flushed, and he pressed his cold hands against them, as tears dripped from his eyes and blood flowed from his knuckles. He leaned back against the cushions, and closed his eyes, while his giggles became sobs, and he slid into sleep.

When he woke up, the tears were dried on his face. Music from outside the building thudded throughout his ears while his stomach growled. Jody shook his head, sitting up on the couch. It was night time, and he was hungry. He stood up, and moved towards the stove, where the rice pot from the night before sat. As he turned on the gas stove, he paused.

Why not? he thought. And he got the idea again.

Jody reached into his pocket, and pulled out the check. It was rumpled and torn in one corner, and the paper was harsh against Jody's stiff hands. Jody smiled, and thought of the German man. He thought of the allowances of the building, and he thought back on the papers he had used in school. He'd had pencils and binders and margins. In his mind, he wrote his name in the margin, then tore the check, and threw it into the rice pot.

What do you think you're doing Jody, his mom yelled, the rice is burning, get this mess cleaned up.

"I will, mom," Jody promised. He moved across the room, behind his couch, where there was a chest. He opened it - inside was the gas and matches he had bought a few months before. Jody took them both out, and laughed. Jody felt free. He turned on the radio - there was static behind the guitar, but it was alright. He kicked over the couch, and poured the gasoline on it. When he was done, Jody stood in front of it, looking at his work - it was an overturned couch. It was funny.

Get this mess cleaned up! his mom shrieked. Jody struck a match, and tossed it onto the couch.

It erupted into brilliant blue flames that danced across the grimy upholstery. The heat flared into Jody's face, and warmth crept up his hands. The heat was beautiful, was home, and it drove away the cardboard windows and the black cracks. It spread across the floor, and Jody felt pride at a job well done. He opened the door of his apartment, and strode across the hallway, past the bathroom, past the stairs - somewhere was an old man talking about World War II. Jody didn't listen, he had a mission. He reached the far wall, and pulled the fire alarm down - a shrill sound spread throughout the building, drowning out all the bangs and rhythms. Doors opened up and down the hallway, and people poured out, panicked and noisy.

As the fire flared up, and the tenants moved down the stairs, Jody noticed that one door had remained shut. It was the room of an old lady Jody had seen around the building, home at all hours, and Jody was surprised to see that she had not left. As the heat crawled up his neck and the smoke twisted into his nostrils, Jody knocked on the door, calling out, "Ma'am?"

There was no answer. Jody beat on the door several times, then gave it a series of swift, hard kicks. The door splintered, and Jody thrust his way inside. The room was much smaller than Jody's, and it was poorly lit. Even with the chill air, it managed to maintain a stuffy quality, as well as the scent of wet dog. Stretched out on a couch in the far corner of the room lay the old woman, asleep. Jody picked her up and slung her into a fireman's carry. The old woman's eyes shot open, and she began to shriek, "No! No!"

"Don't worry," Jody told her, beginning to feel guilty, as he moved out the door of the apartment. "There's a fire. I'm going to help you."

The residents had already congregated on the streets in front of the building by the time Jody pushed open the main doors and staggered down the stairs. The first signs of flame could be seen from within the windows, and sirens sounded in the distance. Jody sat the woman down, and she ran into the arms of what Jody assumed to be a neighbor, sobbing. The neighbor flashed a glance at Jody.

"I was just helping her out," he mumbled in explanation. The neighbor nodded in satisfaction, but the woman continued to cry.

"My baby!"

"What?" asked Jody, taken back. The old woman thrust her tear-stained face into the chest of the neighbor.

"My grandchild, my baby, my baby," she chanted in a thick voice. Jody's eyes opened wide, and he looked up at the building wildly. He thought back on the room and remembered - next to the couch, there was a cradle that he had overlooked, thinking of it as a knick knack from past times. Without a word, he turned and darted back into the building.

"Wait!" the neighbor shouted. "You can't do that!"

Smoke coursed down the stairs in thick waves. With each step, the heat became more and more oppressive, and sweat poured down Jody's back. When he came to his floor, he began to cough - the smoke was thick, and his eyesight was obscured. He dropped to his knees, and crawled along the floor, sidling up against the wall and counting the doors as he moved down the hallway. Finally, he found the shards of wood, and wormed into the old woman's apartment.

By the time he'd found the cradle, the smoke had become unmanageable. Jody coughed wildly, and felt hatred towards the heat, the heat that singed the hairs on his neck. As he climbed to his knees and looked inside the cradle, he thought of shattered bowls, and the rice burning on the stove, and his mother, Jody, clean this mess up, allowances for buildings, margins and smoking Germans. Jody saw movement under the blanket of the cradle, and heard a whimper. He reached down and gently pulled the blanket away, and looked into the anxious face of a puppy.

Jody's face contorted. He grabbed the puppy by the scruff of the neck, ignoring the sharp bark of disapproval and the scratching and biting on his arms. He coughed loudly, and spat a large vat of phlegm onto the ground, while blood seeped from his skin. The puppy wailed with a shrill tone as Jody dragged himself across the floor, heading towards the stairs.

Outside, people stared at his limp and his soot stained face. He gasped in the air, and glanced around. Firemen had assembled, and the action was frantic, as was the we have to contain it excuse me Miss is there anybody left in the building? One of the red suits moved towards him with a concerned look on his face, but Jody waved the man away.

The crowd had been pushed back from the perimeter, and Jody could see the old woman at the forefront, still nestled and crying against the neighbor's chest. The neighbor prodded her in the shoulder, and she turned to look at Jody. Her wrinkled face lit up as she saw the dog, and Jody's lips formed a twisted smile. The old woman's near-vocalizations of thanks turned into anguish as he threw the dog at her, hitting her squarely in the chest. It yelped in protest, and scraped against the woman as it tried to get away. The neighbor looked at Jody helplessly.

"I tried to tell you, man. She's crazy," he burbled. Jody continued to smile sardonically, looking at the old woman.

"I should have let you burn in the fire," he said, then shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked down the street. The cold felt good against his feverish skin. He reveled in the chill dull feeling, agreed to embrace it, and for once, didn't even mind that he was marginalized.